Saviour Sickness
by Cyril Avenue
Summary: Yoh dies a hero's death. Deathdrabble.


summary: Yoh dies a hero's death. Deathdrabble.  
disclaimer: shove it here.   
prefic: The first SK fic I've written and have been even vaguely happy with. So. Yay. Apologies for less-than-winsome title. And lack of Amidamaru. It's full of holes, yes.   
warning: This was written in early morning. And if it isn't obvious to you, it's a Yoh deathfic.   
  
  
  
Saviour Sickness  
  
It was the dying of the light that everyone experienced, but to heroes came so much quicker. It was the strain of their sort of life, he supposed. His sort of life.  
  
Pitting his soul against another he knew he could manage, (the strength of a spirit being endless), but physically- the body was limited. There was only so much his could take.  
  
  
It began with a weariness, smoky and smothering, the texture of butter. He found he could not move as easily, stumbling more than walking, so he tried to walk less. He found his breathing became wheezing, and, afraid that Anna, sleeping beside him, would hear, he tried to breathe less.   
  
He was glad he still smiled as easily.   
  
But Anna still noticed, of course, and she fixed her eyes on him, and said, It had to come someday.  
  
He laughed quietly. I suppose.   
  
  
Manta invited them out for lunch one day, as he did every so often.   
  
He was now the boss of his father's company, but his smiles still seemed so uncertain, his manner still so mild.  
  
They were just getting up to go when Yoh keeled over.  
  
Manta drove them home. In the rearview mirror he locked eyes with Anna.  
  
He's sick, Anna said quietly.   
  
Manta didn't say anything.  
  
  
He started coming over everyday, sometimes staying for the whole day. He talked with Yoh about some things, and they didn't talk about other things.  
  
Anna was glad Yoh had Manta's company. She was glad of the looks Manta exchanged with her, glad of his good-byes at the door, his offers of help even though he knew they were useless.   
  
Yoh told me, he told Anna. If there's anything I could do...?  
  
Anna smiled at him. He's going to die anyway.  
  
Manta looked strickened. Then he murmured, and laughed, and it felt stifling to Anna, because Yoh laughed like that sometimes.  
  
  
Barely thirty, and dying, not of sickness, not of anything. Just of life.  
  
It was all kind of sad.  
  
Anna was glad he still smiled so easily.   
  
  
Yoh made her invite people over, people they once knew, friends and almost-strangers. He made her not tell.   
  
They'll notice, anyway, she said.   
  
Just don't tell them.  
  
She consented, her lips tight as he leaned to kiss her on the corner of her mouth.  
  
Tell them next week- no, the week after next. Friday.  
  
  
As Anna predicted, they all noticed, but they didn't talk about it. They made toasts and got drunk and laughed and laughed and laughed. They played silly games, and left in the morning.  
  
As Anna knelt to clear the place of tipped-over cups and empty, idly rolling cans, Yoh said, Doesn't everything just feel so empty, Anna?  
  
Anna put down the cups and cans and lay beside him, and as she stroked his arm and he pressed his lips to her hair, they talked. They talked about things that had happened, about things that hadn't, about things that still made them smile, about dreams and battles and how they felt about everything.   
  
And once Anna looked at him and whispered, Are you scared, Yoh?  
  
And Yoh laughed and choked on his laughter, I've never been so afraid in my life!  
  
I'm fucking terrified, Yoh said, his breath hot with tears, as Anna placed a hand on the side of his face and kissed his lips to silence him, her fingers running circles on the skin of his chest.   
  
  
*  
When Yoh died, Anna was holding him.   
  
She heard his breath hitch suddenly, felt his hand clutch her wrist more tightly.  
  
And long after his grip had loosened, hers did not.  
  
It seemed to her, that he was water, and she was a leaky faucet.   
  
Just a tap left to dribble.  
  
  
  
END./ 25Oct03.  
  
  
exit: A tap left to dribble- from a poem (That Unknowing Sadness, Ann Ang Su Lee). Does it seem out of place? Superfluous, like? I was grappling for a way to end it.   
  
  



End file.
